Onyx Webb 6

by Diandra Archer

  Onyx Webb: Book Six

  Diandra Archer

  ONYX WEBB, BOOK SIX

  Copyright © Richard Fenton & Andrea Waltz 2018

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher or authors.

  DISCLAIMER:

  This book is a work of fiction. And while some real locations, historical events, company names and easily recognizable public figures have been used, the story is strictly the product of the authors’ imaginations. Beyond that, any names and/or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-947814-05-9

  Lust for Living Press is an imprint of

  COURAGE CRAFTERS, INC.

  Visit Our Webb-Page

  www.OnyxWebb.com

  Contents

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Quote

  Chapter 17

  FBI

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Quote

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  From the Journal of Onyx Webb

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Quote

  Quote

  “What if, while we’re gazing up at the stars and marveling at the greatness of the universe, the universe is gazing down on us and marveling at ours?”

  - Onyx Webb

  Chapter One

  Episode 16: The Autistic Savant

  COLLEGE STATION, PENNSYLVANIA

  JANUARY 29, 1989

  Newt Drystad was the middle child in a middle-class family in the middle of Pennsylvania—beyond that, there wasn’t an ordinary thing about him. An autistic-savant with genius-level math skills, Newt suffered from SPMD—Selective Paralytic Mutism Disorder—a rare condition that placed the young boy in periodic states of suspended animation, where he would not speak or move unless led by the hand.

  His condition was so rare that doctors gave it its own name—Drystad’s Daiquiri—likening Newt’s “cocktail” of conditions to the popular frozen drink.

  Early on, when Newt slipped into one of his frozen states, he could be stimulated by mathematical games and puzzles. Like the day Newt’s father came home from the university with a Rubik’s Cube.

  “Look at this, Newt. It’s a game.”

  As was often the case, Newt glanced up but was otherwise non-responsive. Newt’s father waved the colored cube in front of Newt, then gave it a number of twists before placing it in his son’s hand.

  “Can you get it back to where it started?”

  Several seconds passed, then Newt twisted the cube—twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist, twist—then let it drop from his hands to the floor.

  Each side was a solid color again.

  Once again, Newt’s father mixed the cube up and handed it back to his son. This time, however, he glanced at his watch.

  The standard-size Rubik’s Cube had forty-three quintillion possible combinations. The current world record for solving the puzzle was one minute, nineteen seconds.

  Sixteen seconds later, Newt dropped the cube to the floor.

  He was five years old at the time.

  A year later Newt stopped communicating altogether. For the next two years, nothing anyone tried could reach him. The doctors ran out of ideas and threw up their hands. The family feared their young son was lost to them forever.

  Then Newt’s father took him to see The January Man.

  Released in January 1989, The January Man was a cop-chases-serial-killer movie starring Kevin Kline and Harvey Keitel. To the extent that Psycho was one of the best serial killer films ever, The January Man was on the opposite end of the movie spectrum. Film critic Roger Ebert called it one of the worst movies of all time.

  Unaware of the poor reviews, Newt’s father took his son to a Saturday matinee while his wife spent the day with their two girls.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea to take an eight-year-old to an R-rated movie?” Newt’s mother asked.

  “I don’t think it matters,” Newt’s father said. “For all we know, Newt doesn’t even know he’s in a theater, let alone paying attention to the movie.”

  But then, in the middle of the movie, Newt turned to his father and said, “All the dates are prime numbers.”

  Newt’s father was dumbstruck. It was the first time Newt had spoken in almost three years. “What?”

  Newt put his finger to his lips. “Shssh!”

  Moments later, Kevin Kline explained that the victims were all killed on dates that were prime numbers. Newt tapped his father on the shoulder and whispered, “He doesn’t know about the buildings yet.”

  “The buildings? What building?” Newt’s father stammered, his voice catching in his throat.

  “Each building marks a position on a map, a constellation,” Newt said. “Each murder is like a star. When you connect them, they become Virgo.”

  Again, Newt was right.

  The buildings where the victims were murdered formed the constellation Virgo when connected on the map.

  But when the movie was over, so was the conversation. Newt shut down during the closing credits.

  On the way home, Newt’s father stopped at a video store and rented every serial killer movie they had. When he got home, he gathered the entire family in the living room and inserted Manhunter into the Betamax player.

  Newt’s mother was not amused. “What are you doing? We can’t watch this with the girls in the room.”

  “Just watch.”

  Ten minutes into the film, Newt started talking—and talked for the next two hours without stopping—while his sisters danced around the living room and his parents held each other and cried.

  For reasons beyond anyone’s understanding, Newt’s fascination with serial killers had unlocked his mind and his body.

  Why?

  How?

  The Drystads didn’t care why.

  All they knew was they found a way to reach their son.

  Chapter Two

  CRIMSON COVE, OREGON

  MARCH 10, 1986

  Alistar banged on the enormous lighthouse door with the heel of his hand, flecks of red paint falling off with each strike—the wood raw and weathered, as if it hadn’t been painted in fifty years—and was surprised to find himself feeling nervous. Not about meeting Onyx, though.

  The nerv
es were the result of having told Kizzy that he was going to play cards with friends from his old law firm. Telling his wife that he was going to spend the evening having tea with a bankrupt old woman in a lighthouse seemed odd somehow. He also had not yet shared that he’d quit MPI and was going to go out on his own, starting his own firm.

  “The door is unlocked, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx called from somewhere inside. “You may enter and wait for me in the foyer.”

  Alistar pulled the large door open and entered the sparsely decorated lower level of the lighthouse. The only features of the room were the paintings lining the walls, an unlit fireplace, a baby grand piano, and a spiral iron staircase painted black. There were also bookshelves lining the walls that seemed to go all the way up into the lighthouse.

  “I assume you drink tea?” Onyx’s voice came from the spiral staircase above him.

  “Of course,” Alistar responded. “I’m British.”

  “Very well. I shall bring down a cup of Earl Grey with some sugar and cream. Do you see the red step on the staircase, Mr. Ashley?”

  Alistar glanced over and noticed that one of the iron stairs had indeed been painted red. “Yes, I see it.”

  “You may wait for me there,” Onyx said. “But do not go past that point.”

  Alistar found the directive a bit odd—but then again, everything about the eccentric old woman was odd.

  To occupy his time, Alistar spent the next several minutes perusing the art that lined the walls. Most of the pieces were wildly vibrant abstracts, stunning in appearance, though not really to his taste. Others were true-to-life depictions of the lighthouse, nature, the cove, trees, and sunsets. Each of the paintings was signed with a single word.

  Onyx.

  Alistar walked over to the piano and raised the keyboard cover. He placed three fingers over the keys of the C-chord and pressed down. The piano was perfectly in tune, making him think the old woman must play. He’d have to ask her.

  A minute later, Alistar heard a teapot whistle, followed by footsteps on the metal spiral staircase. “Turn your head for a moment, will you please, while I deliver your tea?” Onyx said from the staircase.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m an old woman, Mr. Ashley, and I don’t care to repeat myself if I don’t have to,” Onyx said. “Do you see the piano?”

  Alistar turned his head in the direction of the piano. “Yes, I see the piano.”

  “Good, now keep looking at it until I tell you otherwise,” Onyx said.

  Doing as he’d been told, Alistar kept his eyes on the piano and listened as he heard Onyx come down the spiral staircase, followed by the sound of the china teacup and saucer being set on the metal step.

  “Very well, Mr. Ashley, you may now take your seat.”

  Alistar turned and saw the red teacup and saucer sitting on the red stair. Apparently “take your seat” meant that he should “take his stair.”

  “Do you play?” Alistar asked as he took a sip of tea, noticing the distinct vanilla aroma. “The piano, I mean?”

  “Yes, when I’m in the mood,” Onyx said. “And you?”

  “Not for a long time now,” Alistar said. “When I first came to the States, my mother took me to hear Muddy Waters at the Zanzibar Club in Chicago. All the great blues artists played there. Joe Willie Wilkins, Bo Diddley, Bobby Lee Burns. Pinetop Perkins was my favorite, though. Greatest blues piano I’ve ever heard.”

  “And that’s when you began playing?”

  “Yes,” Alistar said. “These paintings, you did these?”

  “Why don’t we establish a few ground rules for our meetings, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “First and foremost, under no circumstances will you be allowed to go beyond the stair where I’ve set your tea.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because this is my lighthouse, and I make the rules,” Onyx said. “Second, no recording devices shall be used in my presence at any time. Should you wish to make a note of something, write it down on paper the way it used to be done.”

  “May I use a ballpoint pen?” Alistar said. “Or must it be a feather quill dipped in ink?”

  “Third,” Onyx said, ignoring the comment, “you are never to show up at the lighthouse unannounced. These rules are, as those in the profession of law might say, non-negotiable. Have I made myself understood?”

  “Aren’t you being a bit assumptive, Ms. Webb?” Alistar replied. “I don’t recall agreeing to any visits beyond this one.”

  “True enough,” Onyx said. “But should we continue to meet, these are my rules. Also, you may call me Onyx if you wish—but as long as you are acting as my legal representative, I shall continue to refer to you as Mr. Ashley.”

  “Very well. So, what would you like to talk about, Onyx?” Alistar asked.

  “Start by telling me more about yourself, Mr. Ashley. I know only that you are a lawyer, and I know you are from England, but where exactly?”

  “Have you heard of Birmingham?” Alistar asked.

  “Yes. Several hours north of London, I believe.”

  “Northwest, actually, but yes. Have you been?” Alistar asked.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Ashley,” Onyx said. “My travels have been limited to this country, but I am a voracious reader. And you were born there in Birmingham?”

  “I wish,” Alistar said. “Birmingham is one of two bookend cities, the other of which is Wolverhampton. I was born in the dodgy of the two.”

  “Dodgy?”

  “I apologize,” Alistar said. “Dodgy is British slang, meaning run down. It’s somewhere no one wants to be from.”

  “I see,” Onyx said. “And what lay between these bookends, Mr. Ashley?”

  “Sadness and stolen dreams,” Alistar responded dryly. “Black country, they called it, after the soot that covered the workers at the end of a twelve-hour day down in the mines that dotted the landscape for as far as the eye could see.”

  “And your father worked in one of those mines?”

  “Yes, until the day the sirens went off, indicating one of the mines had collapsed,” Alistar said. “I ran home to find my mother sobbing on the kitchen floor.”

  “I buried my father twenty-two years ago, and the pain is with me still,” Onyx said.

  “Yes, well at least you have a grave to visit,” Alistar said. “My father was buried so deeply in the earth his body could not be brought to the surface. How can a person be expected to rest in peace when interred in the place they spent their entire life trying to escape?”

  “But his son escaped,” Onyx said. “At least there is that.”

  “Yes, there is that.”

  “Before we continue, I really must thank you for what you did,” Onyx said. “Paying the taxes, as you did. It is perhaps the nicest thing anyone has done for me in thirty years. But I’m not sure how I will be able to ever repay you.”

  “We will deal with the repayment later,” Alistar said. “For now, let’s leave it at that.”

  Chapter Three

  ORLANDO, FLORIDA

  SEPTEMBER 26, 2010

  Koda Mulvaney’s first words after emerging from twenty-three days in a coma were not what Mika had hoped for. In her fantasies, Mika would rush out to the gathered media in the front of the hospital and share Koda’s first words after regaining consciousness:

  “I love you, Mika,” Koda whispered…

  “I’ve been dreaming of you, Mika,” Koda declared…

  “Let’s get married, here and now,” Koda insisted...

  There was no script in Mika’s head for “Where’s Robyn?”

  The doctors, on the other hand, were ecstatic. “What were his exact words?” a doctor asked.

  “It was hard to tell,” Mika said. “He mumbled something about robbing something.”

  “Robbing something?” a second doctor repeated.

  “He mumbled?” the first doctor asked, the concern obvious on his face. “Could you understand him clearly? Or were the words slurred, as if he were drunk?”

&n
bsp; “No, he didn’t slur,” Mika said, knowing she was trapped. “It might have been more like, ‘Where’s Robyn?’ ”

  The Lincoln Town Car dropped Robyn at the front entrance to the hospital slightly after ten the next morning. Robyn fought her way through the throng of fans and media into the building lobby. Fortunately—because no one knew who she was—they ignored her.

  Robyn took the elevator up to Koda’s floor and found Bruce and Declan seated in the hallway.

  “Thanks for sending the plane,” Robyn said. “How is he?”

  “Right now he’s asleep,” Declan said. “And don’t thank us—we should be thanking you for coming.”

  “I mean, how is he?” Robyn said.

  “It’s too early to tell what long-term impact his drowning will have, but they’re very positive with what they’ve seen so far,” Bruce said. “Right now, the doctor is concerned that the only thing he wants is to see you.”